


Johnlock Penis Friday PWPs

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV), Tumblr (Fandom)
Genre: AUs, M/M, PWP, Penis Friday, Smut, non AUs, see each chapter summary for details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posting one shot PWPs written for Penis Fridays and the porn gifs which inspired them.  Each chapter is its own story.</p><p>*UPDATED PERIODICALLY BETWEEN PROJECTS*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Experiments in Creatively Rearranging Furniture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drinking, stumbling grabby hands and those darn chairs.

John’s hands slipped down the chair to Sherlock’s knees as he fell. In the scrabble to regain balance, he teetered forward, his hands following suit until he gripped strong thighs.  "Careful now, sweet Jawn,” the dark haired genius slurred and rumbled his name past full lips. His lopsided smile meeting John’s eyes in reassurance. The doctor froze, one knee on the carpet, hands braced on his flatmate’s open legs. He opened his mouth to speak only to find his throat had gone dry.

"Going to propose?" Sherlock laughed. His head tilted back, exposing the long expanse of that beautiful throat as his chest shook in giggles. John’s eyes drank the taller man in. His hands slipped slowly up the thighs below his grip. Inching slowly towards the heat between them but not daring to drop his gaze.

"I might propose something." John muttered. Sherlock stilled. His head snapped down, eyes locked on those before him. The blonde between his legs was grinning, predatory. His eyes had blown dark and navy, tongue darting out to lick dry lips. Sherlock’s own face twitched in desperation, struggling to mask something dark, challenging.

"Oh?" Sherlock managed.

"Yes." John answered,eyes locked on his flatmate as his hands began to move. Curious fingers splayed wide, thumbs grazing the faintest friction across Sherlock’s growing erection as they passed higher to unbuckle his belt.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He let his head fall back, eyes dropping closed, allowing the sensation of John’s warm hands take over.

Belt removed, shirt untucked, John slipped the clasp open and teased Sherlock’s zip down. There was nothing underneath and wasn’t that unexpected. His erection was obscene now. Insistent and dripping. John found his dry mouth now wet with want. He looked up, catching Sherlock staring down at him. His eyes were blown wide, face flushed pink and panting.

"Please." Sherlock said, permission and begging in one whispered word.

"Oh God yes." And John was on him at once, trousers pulled roughly down milky thighs, hot wet lips wrapping around his cock. Sucking, licking, teasing with every touch. Sherlock keened, back arching towards the inviting warmth of John’s mouth. John’s tongue. Oh god, John’s lips.

"No, no John wait." Sherlock’s hands pulled at short blonde hairs begging him to stop.

"Sherlock , what—" John was pulled up, into a punishing kiss. All teeth and tongues battling for control. "I want," Sherlock bit at John’s lower lip, hands reaching around to grab his flatmate’s arse and pull him into his lap. "I want to fuck you."

John’s jeans were too tight now. The friction of Sherlock’s cock pushing against him as the taller man rocked his hips slowly was too much sensation. His mind had blanked, breath stilled. It was a long moment of painfully teasing friction before John could speak.

"Hnng Sherlock. Yes, anything." The devious doctor rocked his hips forward pulling a delicious moan from Sherlock’s kiss abused lips before bruising them further.

"I want to come inside you." Sherlock gasped between breaths.

"Yes." John stood, wobbly and lightheaded. Lithe fingers were all over him, peeling his jumper off, his vest, his jeans. He was stripped bare in record time and backed into his own chair. Sherlock towered over him, stripping his own shirt off and kicking the trousers away. John simply watched, languidly stroking himself as his eyes devoured every patch of new skin. Mentally mapping out every place he was going to mark as his own.

Suddenly cool lubed fingers were pushing his thighs open, coaxing his bum to the edge of the chair. ”Where did you?” Sherlock winked and began slowly massaging down the cleft of his arse. “Your coat pocket.” John flushed crimson at being caught out. Not that it should be unexpected for a single man to enjoy a nice wank or random pub hookup.

"Sherlock, Ah." All thought was erased as a single finger slipped inside him. Slowly, teasingly fucking him open. Damn those fingers. So long and precise. Before he could recover from the stretch there were two, then three. Teasing him, stroking him, scissoring him open. John was barely in the chair now, held up only by Sherlock’s grip on his hips and the fingers pulling him apart. His cock was stiff and ignored between them, precum dribbling steady down to his stomach.

"Ah!" John arched up instinctively as plush lips gently kissed his cock. Fingers stilled inside him, four now, oh god. Sherlock took to licking his lover’s shaft, lapping up the taste of him, slowly, teasingly until John whimpered. "Please, please Sherlock."

"As you wish." the detective rumbled, slipping his fingers out slowly. He snapped open the lube bottle and quickly slicked his own cock up, careful not to indulge too much lest he come right there. Adjusting his stance, Sherlock slipped inside John slowly. The burn and stretch was so beautifully painful. But John raised his hips, pushing back into it. Wanting nothing else but more, more, more.

When Sherlock was seated fully inside, John gripped his knees and spread as wide as he could for him. Looking up he found wild eyes beneath crazy dark curls. ”Fuck me. Please, Sherlock.”

Genius detectives do not need to be told twice. Sherlock gripped the armrests on either side of John and pulled back slowly. Once just the tip remained inside he pushed back in. Slowly at first, adjusting until “Oh God! Right there.” Once he found that wonderful little bundle of nerves, Sherlock sped up. Pounding into John over and over and over until he was clawing his lover’s back in desperation.

"Yes, yes, yes, Sherlock harder please." White knuckled and dripping in sweat, Sherlock did as he was asked until John screamed his name and came between them. Two swift strokes later and the taller man collapsed spent on his lover's lap.

They would have to rearrange the rug later to hide where John's chair had marred the floor. No one wanted to explain that to Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gif inspiration:  
> 


	2. Not My Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU: wank sessions, voyeurism

Sherlock just wanted a smoke. That’s it. Chemistry finals were coming up and he’d spent all afternoon tutoring the one guy on campus he wanted but couldn’t have. Mr. Straight-as-an-arrow, different girlfriend every month, mind if I come up to your room and lie on your bed in my too damn tight rugby shorts and my sinfully tanned legs brushing up against you, John fucking Watson. So no, Sherlock decided, it’s not his fault the team showers were right there on his walking path. And it’s not like he’d told John to be alone and naked and wanking when he wandered by. Okay maybe he _did_ choose to peek in and investigate the noises coming from that steamy window and didn’t exactly bolt or turn away from what he’d found. But everything else was completely not his fault.

____

John just wanted a tutor. That’s it. Chemistry finals were coming up and he’d spent all afternoon trying to focus on covalent bonds and energy transference while that tall, dark and perfect Mr. Sex-on-legs just sat there reaching across his lap, and leaning over his shoulder, and rumbling off formulas in a voice that could confess to murder and make him hard, Sherlock fucking Holmes. So no, John decided, it’s not his fault if he’d been distracted throughout rugby practice. And it’s not like he’d planned to hang back in the showers for a wank. But then the water was so warm against the cool night air. And those magic eyes were in his head. Looking up at him from dark lashes, pale cheeks flushed in desire and those lips just begging to suck him off. Okay so maybe his hands didn’t exactly stop the fantasy so much as feed it. But everything else was completely not his fault.

____

Sherlock couldn’t get back to his room fast enough. His jeans were pushed down to his thighs in frustration, cock hot and leaking through his briefs, begging to be touched. Seeing John hard and wet standing in that shower had almost buckled his knees. The tan lines from his rugby uniform perfectly outlining the swell of that gorgeous ass. God he just wanted to get his hands on it and squeeze. Grip him tight by the hips while the shorter boy rammed deep into him. If he could have just been in the shower with him. Pushed up against that cool tile wall, John’s hands in his hair, his lips leaving deep purple marks on his neck and shoulders while he moaned his name. “Fuuuck,” Sherlock let a moan slip, his hands on a mission of their own. His right was using precum to slick him up and tease his head with a twist while his left slipped beneath the briefs to massage his opening. Slipping one finger in just enough to add more sensation, Sherlock jerked faster, rocking his hips between both hands. Maybe if he’d been less focused on alleviating the tightness in his jeans, he’d have noticed the extra Chemistry book before he threw it to the ground. Maybe he would have remembered to lock his door. _Tedious_. It’s not his fault John barely knocked once before barging in.

____

John couldn’t set his plan into motion soon enough. He’d left the book there on purpose. An excuse to go back and talk to the guy again. He was going to wait until the weekend, maybe ask him out for a drink or pop over with a DVD and conveniently offer to stay and watch it. But right now his mind was high on endorphins, his heart was racing with adrenaline and he had to see him. Now. Racing across the lawn, hair slicked from his shower, John ran to the boys dorm. Dashed up the stairs to Sherlock’s door then slowed outside to catch his breath. _It’s late, what if he’s asleep?_ But John knew he’d be wake. He’d seen those sinful skinny jeans taking long cigarette breaks and midnight walks. Ridiculous coat trailing after him like a cape. And then John’s mind broke and flooded him with even more fantasies. Sherlock in nothing but that coat, riding him hard while it fluttered behind them. A soft groan sounded so suddenly John’s hand flew to his mouth, so sure he’d let it out himself. But the noise had come from behind the door. And now that he was listening, he could hear other sounds too. _Nothing ventured_ … his sex starved mind supplied. John knocked the softest knock he could muster before slowly opening the door and letting himself in.

He froze in the door, mouth gaping. John was in a daze, eyes locked on the fist pumping rapidfire over Sherlock’s hard cock. Suddenly the taller man jerked up, his back arching off the bed as he came. “Hnng John!” His own name flying out of those plush lips broke the spell. John cleared his throat and gently knocked the door frame. Sherlock froze, sighed, then slowly turned to face his visitor.

“Join me or leave. Either way, do close the door.”

“Oh I am staying,” John said, closing and locking the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by this lovely set of images submitted to my ask box:  
> 
> 
> I know it's not Friday yet! But I am working on another PWP for 221Behave and had to get this out of my head first. <3


	3. Yes, Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a rather naughty Skype chat session. knickers, military kink, webcam smex

Sherlock loosely toweled his hair, wrapped himself in the hotel’s poor excuse for a plush robe and settled at the small desk with his laptop. The day had been long and tiresome followed by a cold shower and lack of properly prepared tea. He had already planned fourteen new ways to kill his brother on the cab ride back. Logging into Skype to see John’s green icon was the only hope to salvage his mood.

 **SherlockHolmes** : Save me John, I hate it here.  
 _CaptainJohn_ : Evening Sherlock. How is Moscow?  
 **SherlockHolmes** : Dreadful. The local police make Anderson look intelligible and this case was barely a three. Mycroft owes me, assuming I do not murder him upon my return. I should be back in London tomorrow evening.  
 _CaptainJohn_ : It will be over soon then.  
 _CaptainJohn_ : Is your camera working?  
 **SherlockHolmes** : I will turn it on now.  
 _CaptainJohn_ : There you are. Can you see me?  
 **SherlockHolmes** : Yes. Why the ‘Captain’?  
 _CaptainJohn_ : I haven’t used this account since Afghanistan. No need to talk with anyone long distance since then.  
 **SherlockHolmes** : Ah.

Sherlock attempted to hide a shy smile off camera but John caught it.

 _CaptainJohn_ : I can change it if you prefer.  
 **SherlockHolmes** : No!  
 **SherlockHolmes** : That is. It is not important.  
 _CaptainJohn_ : We don’t have to keep typing, if your mic works.

“Of course.” Sherlock huffed, attempting to maintain his pride. He’d used Skype before, there was no reason to be so awkward just because it was John on the other end. He leaned closer to the camera, looking directly into the lens, then awkwardly back to the screen. Torn between maintaining eye contact and looking at the smiling face of his blogger.

“So,” John smiled reassuringly and settled into his chair, “tell me about this three.”

Sherlock heaved a weary sigh like he’d been waiting to unload on John all day and leaned back in his chair. His fingers steepled below his chin then unfurled and ran back through his hair to cradle his head as the detective rocked his chair back and stared up at the ceiling. John was suddenly too distracted by wet curls, exposed neck and the peak of collar bones to pay attention. Fresh-out-of-the-shower Sherlock was just about his favorite flavor of Sherlock.

“--and the killer was so obvious. He all but walked into the station with a confession pinned to his collar. He was easily connected to all three women with minimal effort on my part. Caught him this afternoon grabbing a fourth before he could cut into her.”

“Oh my god.” John whispered.

“Don’t be dramatic John, she wasn’t harmed.”

“No, not the case Sherlock. I mean you. Just, you’re amazing and gorgeous.”

“Oh.” Sherlock grinned, noting the blown pupils and parted lips of his lover’s face on the screen. Case forgotten, he licked his lips deliberately and slowly while staring into the lens for John and winking at the camera.

“Tease.”

The detective leaned further back in his chair, loosening the robe and letting it fall from his shoulders. “Do I arouse you, Captain?”

“Oh, God yes.” John’s tongue wet his too dry lips. His jeans now terribly uncomfortable and forcing him to shift position.

“Show me.” Sherlock nearly growled, his baritone echoing through John’s speakers. The taller man let his eyes fall back to the video feed and watched as John rose from his chair and angled the camera down to his waist.

John unnecessarily removed his belt completely, one loop at a time, laughing at his lover’s groan of annoyance. He waggled his hips in apology and quickly popped the button and zip and turned around to lower his jeans seductively to his knees. Sherlock sucked in a sharp gasp as John's bum clad in lovely red silk filled his screen.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh but I did. For you.” Jeans kicked off, John turned back around to give Sherlock the full view of his erection strained against the thin silk fabric of his new knickers.

“John, they are so lovely on you.” Sherlock was breathing heavily. A quick glimpse back at the screen gave him away. The robe was gone and his shoulders were shaking in a tell-tale manner that told his doctor there were lithe fingers currently teasing the cock he missed so much.

“Sherlock, hnng.” John ran a hand down his own cock, precum already staining the front of hi new panties. “You’re getting me so wet.”

“So I see.” Sherlock grinned, dark and dirty. “Touch yourself John, I want to watch you come.”

“Why don’t you give me something to wank to, love?”

“What would you have me do, Captain?”

“Get on the bed. I want to see you.”

Sherlock adjusted the angle of his laptop and crawled across the bed on all fours awaiting further orders. His rare obedience sent tingles of excitement straight to John’s aching member.

“On your belly, play with your arse for me. I want you to imagine my hands on you.”

Sherlock flushed and paused but a moment before obeying. His voice was barely a whisper. “Yes, Captain.”

“When you get back home, I am going to grab that delicious bum with both hands, pull and hold you open while I lick every inch of you inside and out.” John’s hand slipped inside the silky panties, freeing his cock for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure.

“Mmmm, lovely. Yes.” The dark haired genius slapped himself gently across one cheek and gripped his bum, hips rocking and grinding his cock into the sheets for friction.

“Oh Sherlock, that sound is sinful. Do it again.”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock moaned, spanking himself again. Then again, louder and harder.

“Oh God, I am going to wreck that beautiful arse tomorrow. You will be sore and red and begging.”

“Please,” Sherlock cried. He wanted fingers inside him. He wanted John inside him. John’s hand was moving so fast his screen had become a blur of motion.

“Open yourself up for me. I want you slick and begging before you get this cock.”

“Hnng-- Yes Captain!” Sherlock scrambled for the lube in his suitcase and repositioned back on the bed for John to have a better view as he opened himself up. In just moments, slick fingers were slipping in and out of his desperate hole, scissoring him open as the pillow beneath his face swallowed his moans.

“Oh god, Sherlock, yes. I’m going to come. Hold yourself open for me so I can come all over your wet hole.”

The fingers teasing inside him stilled, slipped out and quickly grabbed his arse, holding himself on display. Sherlock listened intently as John groaned, shivered and whispered his name before collapsing back onto his chair.

“Mmm perfect. Turn around baby. See what you do to me.”

Sherlock flipped over and gasped for the second time that evening. John was glistening in sweat and come. Red panties debauched and dirty in his fist.

“Now,” John said, looking directly into his camera to lock eyes on Sherlock. “Get that hard cock of yours back on camera and come for me so we can both have sweet dreams tonight.”

“Yes, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gif inspiration:  
> 
> 
> *edited 9 Feb* Boy do I love the word "peek" lol. edited a few lines.


	4. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawyer/Author AU, Established Relationship, light bondage 
> 
> Sherlock is getting ready for his first day in court and John is too distracted by that ass in those trousers to get any work of his own done.

Sherlock stood before the mirror adjusting his cuffs and checking the tuck lines of his slate grey blouse for any creases or stray threads. First day in court as a proper lawyer, and he didn’t intend to make a bad impression. Not that he genuinely cared what people thought of him, but he had a realistic understanding of how perceptions can influence actions. Running one last swipe of his hands across his chest, smoothing down the burgundy silk tie, he huffed in satisfaction and entered the sitting room.

The rhythmic tap tap tap of John’s novel in process echoed through their front room. Sherlock saw both mugs on the counter with tea bags prepped for the kettle. “Morning, love.” he said, swooping down to drop a quick kiss on his husband’s cheek before skipping into the kitchen humming a happy tune.

“Morning ‘lock,” John grumbled wearily from his desk. Sherlock could tell from his posture and the state of his bedclothes that John had stayed up writing again.

“How many words did you knock out this run?”

“Hmmm..” John pondered then paused to check. “Just over six thousand. Not bad. I guess I’ve earned a break.” The shorter man rose from his chair, arms pulled taut behind his back and stretched. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on the compact muscles of John’s arms and shoulders, pushing and pulling at his thin tee. He nearly dropped the kettle midpour when his devious hubby rose to his tip toes, arms extended above his head, and revealed that gorgeous dip of hips barely concealed under loose pajama bottoms. Sherlock swallowed a groan and willed his interested cock to sit still. But the lanky lawyer lost all composure when a deep guttural moan escaped lush lips across the room as John’s muscles found release and he bent in half pulling his toes and stretching his lower back.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged. Eyes blown wide, kettle and mugs forgotten as the vision of John doubled over at the waist commanded his full attention. “If you keep that up I’ll ruin my trousers.”

“Oh?” John asked, perking up. “Is that so, Mr. Holmes?” The shorter man was across the room, snaking behind Sherlock and whispering into his neck before he could react. “And just how exactly would we be ruining these gorgeous trousers?” Strong hands were gripping his arse, kneading the soft flesh beneath suddenly too thin black fabric.

“John, please.. some of us.. ah.. have.. mmm real jobs.” Sherlock’s snark was muted by eager hands slipping inside his pockets. The thin silk lining was no barrier for determined fingers stroking him, coaxing him to painful thickness, pulsing and desperate. He arched into the warm body pressed into his back moaning for more.

“Baby, this _is_ my real job.” John whispered warm and dirty into the shell of his ear. His own erection unfettered in loose bottoms was rubbing teasingly into Sherlock’s arse.

“But my.. ah.. my suit John.. I need to be.. pre.. presentable!”

“I agree.” John mumbled, lips pressed into the taller man’s nape. “We should certainly.. _present_ you more.” His clever fingers were working Sherlock’s zip and unhooking his button in record time. Pants shoved down unceremoniously, Sherlock gasped as the chill of exposure hit his wet cock head.

“Ah, God, John please!” Sherlock begged, but John’s hands were stroking him and he was already hard and knew he was fucked before he’s even been fucked. He was begging for release now, and every letter of the word passing his lips announced it.

“Please what, love?” John asked teasingly, stroking his lovers cock slow and lazy. As if they had no where to be for days.

“Just, please,” Sherlock said once more, his voice and frame going pliant and needy.

“Okay baby, I’ll give you what you need. On the sofa, keep the trousers on for now.” John grabbed another handful of that plush arse, squeezing and groaning then nudging his lover out of the kitchen. “That fucking arse of yours, Sherlock. God you practically scream to be fucked.”

“I’d prefer it if you give me cause to scream,” Sherlock huffed, a final act of smart assery before he gave his arse over to the man positioning him over their sofa and sliding his painstakingly pressed trousers just below his bum. His shirt was a wrinkled mess, his tie flipped to the backside of his neck and used more to steer his movements than to accent his dresswear. Also, a wrinkled mess. As if reading the hushed silence of his partner, John ceased his search for lube packets beneath the cushions to sweep around and face Sherlock.

“Baby, I promise I will help press another pair of trousers and a shirt for you. And you can take one of my ties. But right now, I really, really want to get my cock deep inside your plush arse until you are begging me to let you come and ruin the clothes you have on now.”

John took his lover’s mouth over in a fury of teeth and promises of passion yet to come before the newbie lawyer could offer more protest about his attire. Sweeping back behind his dark haired darling, John ripped open a packet of lube. He coated his fingers and swiftly worked Sherlock open one gradual, scissoring finger at a time until the man beneath him was writhing and pushing back against the friction.

“Please,” Sherlock moaned. His hands were sneaking down to desperately grab at his cock and relieve the pressure himself when John captured them.

“No uh uh,” John scolded. Quickly removing Sherlock’s tie, he bound his lover’s hands against the small of his back and tilted Sherlock forward to rest his weight more into the sofa. “Let me. Come for me and at my hand.”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock said, muffled whines lost into the cushions.

John was not a cruel lover. At least, not today when the writhing mess beneath him had to be in court in less than an hour. One hand gripped the swell of that bum he loved so much and the other worked his cock, slicking it up with lube and precum. Lining up and finally slipping inside, both men groaned loudly. No matter how many times, it always felt so hot, tight and new. A beautiful pain in every thrust.

Sherlock widened his stance as much as his trouser bound knees would allow and opened up for his lover. “More, John, please, harder.” John complied, both hands gripping tightly into the hipbones grinding into him as he slammed his cock home harder and deeper with each new push. They found a rhythm in the chaos. A fast, needy, angry melody that peaked only when Sherlock’s screaming threatened to draw police and, instead, drew out John’s own. They collapsed into the sofa sticky and spent.

John removed himself slowly, using his discarded sleep tee to wipe them both down. Leaning to kiss his breathless beau on the cheek he whispered, “Into the shower with you, love. I’ll get your clothes ready.”

“Get the navy tie. You owe me a nice one.” Sherlock grinned, dragging his debauched frame into the bathroom with a giggle and a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time that the gif is tamer than the fic it inspired:  
>   
> Also, this AU inspired something in me and I have started work on a much longer AU fic starring this John and Sherlock. So, you will see a whole lot more of them. Thanks to the random anon who thought suit fetish groping was sexy. I concur!


	5. Sensory Reboot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baskerville Re-write. APOLOGIES FOR ALL THE PLOT. 3   
> Off-canon alternate scene following the argument. Sherlock is terrified that he cannot trust his senses. John is willing to give Sherlock everything he needs to experiment and reboot his system.
> 
> Aggressive Top!lock

Sherlock’s eyes glaze over, lost to the outside world. The overstuffed armchair swallows him. An impressive feat given his height. The Inn’s fire is warm, but inside he is ice and darkness. His hands are shaking in fear. His face is flushed in anger. John sees all of this and approaches anyway.

The cautious doctor settles a mug of coffee next to a near empty glass of brandy. A small sigh escapes his lips and the sass is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Drinking away the problem is rather pedestrian of you, Sherlock. Whatever you and Henry think you saw, it wasn’t real.”

The detective does not respond. His face is blank, unreadable, the fire reflecting across the smooth glass surface of his stare. John settles into the chair next to him and waits. He can be a rash man. An impulsive, violent, angry little ball of fury. But when it comes to Sherlock, he is a rock. John has found that, despite all his usual impulses, can be an anchor for this man. And he can give him whatever time he needs to recover from the moor.

Of course, now is not that time. John is shaken as well, so when his twitching hand seeks grounding on Sherlock’s knee, it’s not a conscious movement. The touch jerks both men back to the world of the living. John flinches from the cruel gaze of contempt leveled upon him and retreats back to the safety of his own chair.

Sherlock hates being coddled. He hates being seen as weak or fragile or, god forbid, human. He knows John meant well, but his touch was a catalyst. It breaks something in the detective and he snaps. Deductions are flying out of him in a mad spiral of fury and desperation to prove just how badly he doesn’t need his doctor. He says cruel things he will later forget. Or delete. Culminating to one final flare up, “There is nothing wrong with me!” Sherlock’s face is contorted, contradicting his words.

“Of course not,” John snips, sarcasm his only defense. “What would I know? I’m just your friend.”

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock bites back.

The last word is twisted like barbed wire, grating on John’s very last nerve. He stiffens, blinks back tears and swallows the rest of his thoughts, spitting out two venomous words before storming off, “wonder why.” The shorter man is gone in a flash, not looking back, not giving his mad flatmate a chance to see just how deep he’s hurt him.

Sherlock is left frozen. Panic stirring behind his features as his eyes flit between John’s now vacant chair and still swinging door he’d just stormed through. His mind palace crumbles, walls dissolving into visions and nightmares. _John’s room at Baker Street stands empty, coated in dust. John is in tears, stumbling alone through the moor chased by the hound. John runs to Henry’s home, distraught and frightened. Asking if he can stay the night rather than share a room with Sherlock. John touching, pushing, kissing Henry._ The visions fade to red as Sherlock snaps back to to reality. Barely three seconds have passed since John’s departure. Far too many.

John is pacing outside, heels of his hands grinding too hard into his eyes. With pain and determination he wills the tears away. Suddenly, a large hand digs into his shoulder. John is whipped around and pulled into the warmth of a stiff wool coat and the familiar mix of cologne, chemicals and cigarettes that remind him of home.

“Don’t just walk away from me.” Sherlock rumbles. His deep voice reverberating between them. “John, I need you.”

“Sherl--” John begins. But his voice is cut off by strong arms pulling him tighter into Sherlock’s chest.

“I am terrified, John. Really and truly. I have always been able to trust my senses. But tonight, I saw... something. Something that cannot exist. I can’t trust my senses right now. I can’t trust what I feel, see, smell. I need to correct it somehow. Counteract the effects and fix my senses.”

“Reboot them?” John offers.

Sherlock stills for a moment, eyelids blinking in rapid succession as he processes John’s words into something useful. Suddenly, the shorter man is lifted from his feet, twirled about and settled back to the ground, too in shock to let out more than a small grunt of indignation. “Yes! John. Ah, you are brilliant!” Then the detective’s gaze is fixed on him, mere inches away. Their noses brush and the breath between them mingles in heated patience. Sherlock’s voice drops to a low whisper, “You are my doctor. My _friend_. Will you assist me?”

“Yes, Sherlock, anything you need.” John’s voice comes out ragged and broken. He is fighting every instinct in his body to just close the gap between them. He doesn’t have to, because the mad genius catches something in John’s gaze, smirks and closes the distance for him.

The kiss is nothing like either of them had imagined. It is desperate and crushing. John finds himself backed into the small brick patio wall. Sherlock licks at his lips, seeking entry before pushing in and claiming John’s mouth completely. The doctor’s mind has gone offline. His fantasy come to life, he closes his eyes and lets the moment consume him. Hands are touching him, pushing under his too many layers to seek every inch of available skin. Sherlock pulls back just enough to speak. his voice is an urgent whisper. “John, please. I need you.”

“Yes,” John answers. His body is on fire, melting into the touch of the madman pawing him and nipping across his chin. “Take what you need, Sherlock. I am here.”

Wild eyes find him, seeking confirmation and consent. John is reminded of Moriarty and the pool. Some part of Sherlock is screaming inside to stop this, end this. But he cannot. So he looks into John’s face for any sign of fear or discomfort and finds only lust and joy and shock. The determined doctor locks his gaze on Sherlock’s eyes, steadying him. Grounding him. And he nods. It is all the confirmation they need.

Moments later Sherlock is dragging John down the hall through the Inn. They make several pit stops to grope and strip and bite every exposed expanse of flesh before finally crashing into their room.

Thrown to the bed, John is stripped unceremoniously. He lies back panting, stroking himself slowly, watching the pale patches of skin expose themselves one by one as his flatmate strips himself. Sherlock is rabid with desire, ripping buttons, cursing zippers and roughly palming his own growing erection. Once both men are naked Sherlock pounces him. His doctor fully pinned to the bed beneath him, Sherlock pauses for a moment to meet John’s eyes and reaffirm his consent. “John, I never wanted our first time to be like.. this. I am sorry. I can stop if--”

Surgeon’s hands grip his hips, interrupting his thoughts and pulling Sherlock’s exposed cock flush against the stiff, dripping one pinned beneath him. “Sherlock Holmes, stop deducing me and fuck me.”

“John are you--”

“I want this and you need this. I am sure, Sherlock.”

“Alright then.” Sherlock nods before slipping down the bed to settle between John’s legs. “First, reboot taste.”

His tongue lashes out pointedly. Serpentine exploration as the detective licks John from nipple to thigh to belly to perineum. The doctor is groaning and squirming madly. One arm draped across his eyes to block off some of the sensations assaulting him as his cock is engulfed in the sweet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. His tongue and cheeks conspire to push John to the edge. John chokes back moans and screams biting into his fist until the movement ceases and the dark curls between his legs part to reveal silver eyes locked on him.

“John, I need to fix my hearing too. Don’t hold back from me.” John groans and removes his fist. It doesn’t take long before his back is arching off the bed and sweat slick screams are rolling from him as Sherlock swallows down the last drop of his orgasm. Before he can recover, Sherlock is flipping him over, kneading his arse.

“Lube.” John gets out, sure that in his rush Sherlock might just be crazed enough to try to take him without. “in my bag, front zipper.”

The detective stills a moment, his erection now painfully hard and pressing into the dip of Johns back seeking desperate friction. Conflicted for just a second, he leaves the bed and upends the contents of John’s night bag to muffled groans of annoyance. Snatching the lube and a condom, Sherlock rushes back to the bed. He pops the lube bottle cap open before realization hits him. “John,” Sherlock asks, leaning to whisper accusation directly into his flatmate’s ear, “why did you pack these things?”

John flushes red and stammers out a reply, “I am single and horny and always hopeful?”

Sherlock smiles briefly, wondering what exactly John had been hoping for and for how long but those questions could wait for daylight. Right now, a reddened bum was wriggling beneath him, waiting to be worked open. His dick twitches at the sight, pulling his attention back south. Liberally coating his fingers, Sherlock eases the first one in. John pushes back into him, moaning for more. Gradually there are two digits working the shorter man open, then three, pushing prodding and scissoring him to tears.

Once John is hard again and bucking back against his hand, Sherlock pulls out and begin lubing his cock. Lining up, he slowly eases the head in, stopping just a moment for the stretch to settle before pushing in completely. His fingers dig deep, dark bruises into John’s hips as his mind short circuits.

“Sherlock,” John speaks calmly. “Open your eyes and focus on what you can see. Tell me everything. Describe it for me.”

Silver eyes flash open, “Ah, John, I can see your tight arse swallowing me. My cock stretching you open, sliding deep inside of you. My hands are white knuckled, leaving marks on your skin, claiming you for m-m-mine.” Sherlock stutters the last few words, pumping deeper, longer strokes. “Your back and spine are dipped at just the right angle, your neck, begging for more bites.” The detective lets his hands slide up to John’s nape, wrenching his face around for a bruising kiss as he slams hard into his prostate. “Oh god John, I can taste you. I want to swallow all those sounds while I’m fucking into you.”

“Yes, Sherlock, please, fuck me. Focus on the feelings now. What can you feel?”

“Hnng, oh so tight John,” Sherlock groans, slamming John harder, adjusting his angle to get deeper. “I can feel your pulse around my cock. Reading you from inside out. So hot, so wet, so soft and hard.”

“Oh god yes, Sherlock. Harder please!”

Sherlock unleashes every bit of energy he has left, fucking John mercilessly into the mattress, his cries muffled by the pillows and sheets. The shorter man comes dry and ragged just as Sherlock unloads into him with a loud growl. They collapse into the bed, a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, too exhausted to clean up.

Sherlock’s last coherent thought as John begins to snore beside him is to reboot his sense of smell. Nuzzling into John’s neck he breathes deep. The musk of the man, the sweat and salty mess on his chest, the faint traces of cologne, and the bitter taste of stale tea still clinging to his breath. All of these things bring peace to his mind, anchoring him in the security that this, right now, is real.

“Mmm, John, you smell like home.” Sherlock whispers just as sleep claims him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gif inspiration this time was part of a set [[x](http://jawnlawkprawn.tumblr.com/post/77370125074/mister-sir1-because-you-dont-kiss-your-car-or)]  
> 


	6. Holmes&Watson Do Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magician!lock AU - Vegas, magic duo, Irene Adler makes a cameo.
> 
> Top!John, Bottom!lock, Shower sex, garters/knickers kink

Irene watches from the side stage as a single blue spotlight illuminates her star client: Sherlock Holmes. Removing his cape to reveal bare shoulders and his trademark bumble bee tattoos, the man is radiant. Pale skin of his neck and torso ripple beneath the lights as the genius magician gesticulates through his setup soliloquy and mesmerizes his audience with that silky baritone. _Good call on the new stagehand_ Irene congratulates herself. Everyone in the front row is so enamored by oil slicked abs and tight leather pants that they don’t even see the small black box being wheeled on stage.

The house lights brighten back up and Sherlock steps aside to reveal the new act. A small hat box, chained down to a folding card table. Irene is grinning with anticipation as Sherlock rounds the box, putting on a show tugging chains and locks. She knows what’s in the box. Or rather, who. Everyone who has seen this act knows. But tonight will be just a bit different. John wanted something special for Sherlock’s birthday, and if Irene Adler couldn’t deliver special, then she should just retire from show business now.

Sherlock flares his gorgeous fingers out, palms up and fanned to show his hands are empty. His lack of a shirt avoids the necessary “nothing up my sleeves” motions. Tapping the box once, twice, and it grows. Impossibly unfolding and doubling in size. Chains are snapping off. As the final padlock snaps and flies across the stage, the box has grown to just over six feet tall. Smoke machines kick in and the house lights dim. Now there are two spotlights on the stage, the harsh neon pink of Vegas. A hollow, dull knocking reverberates through the auditorium as everyone is hushed in anticipation.

Sherlock circles the box, face set in mock confusion and surprise. He leans forward, ear to the box, and angled to give the front row a perfect view of that leather clad ass. _How else could they quantify a $100 upcharge for those seats_? The knocking continues, louder as Sherlock rounds the front of the box and the spotlights merge, growing into one bright white beam as the box collapses into dust at Sherlock’s touch.

Then, to the cheers and gasps of the audience, a form emerges from the pile of ash. The other half of the famous magic duo **Holmes &Watson**. Except tonight John pulls a gasp from Sherlock as well. For instead of his usual Showgirl styled phoenix plumage, tonight he is all exposed golden flesh and taut muscle. His legs are wrapped in red fishnet stockings capped by gold clasps and red silk suspenders that trail deliciously up strong thighs. Sherlock’s mouth goes dry as he gets to the barely there red sequined panties.

He is frozen, center stage and his mad partner is grinning at him, winking. John crosses the stage, throws an arm over Sherlock’s shoulder and nudges him gently forward. _Oh yes, bowing_. “Say goodnight to the nice people, Sherlock,” John whispers in his ear. “Then you can unwrap your present.”

“Thank you and Goodnight!”

___  
Once backstage, Sherlock is dragging John past the stage crew and Irene. No time for chatting tonight. His curls are slick with sweat, eyes dark and hungry and everyone just knows to shut up and move. John is hopping an awkward gallop trying to keep up the pace in his new heels as Sherlock snakes between boxes and equipment. His wrist wrenches as he is pulled and pushed through the door to their dressing room.

Suddenly the lanky magician corners John, rutting against him. His nimble fingers tease the delicate sequins lining his lover’s cock. His own heat hard and insistent pushing harder against John’s hip. Leather pulled to its limit and painfully tight. Trailing hands down John’s hips, he plays with the thin red straps and gold clasps of each garter. Popping them and hmming at each tiny gasp John lets loose. He unhooks the straps and drops to his knees to lave up fishnet clad thighs. His mouth is evil, teasing as he rolls each stocking down and kisses his way back up to John’s pulsing cock. Sherlock stands and drinks in the view of the man as John kicks his feet free of the heels.

“I rather like your new costume change.” Sherlock’s fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of John’s panties grabbing a handful of lush bum and pulling the shorter man closer. His cock slipping free of its tiny silk bonds and leaking across his belly. Grinding harder against his hip, Sherlock is so hard now, so close to getting off just with this friction and the soft groans pulling from deep within John. His own whine grows frantic, deep and animal. His mouth is watering, leaning forward to nibble his boyfriend’s neck he is almost startled by John’s voice.

“Irene’s idea, love. Don’t expect this every night.” John puts a hand to Sherlock’s chest, pushing him back a bit and forcing him to slow his breathing. “Though I am tempted after the stunned look it put on your face, to perhaps treat you again.” He runs his other hand in soothing circles across Sherlock’s shoulders, up and down his back, coming to rest in the nape of his neck before pulling him down for a slow, languid kiss.

John licks his way inside and carefully explores every corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Deep baritone moans are shaking through them both as Sherlock melts into John’s hold. Pulling back, both men are panting. John wipes his mouth and spits the taste of stage makeup and coconut oil out in disgust. He wants to taste his lover, not the performer. John scratches his hands down Sherlock’s back, gripping both cheeks and squeezing hard before pulling back his right to smack a light spanking. Sherlock keens, arching his back into John’s space.

“John.”

“First, wash that oil and glitter off, Sherlock.” John pulls Sherlock in for one more harsh kiss before shoving him towards the shower.

Sherlock quickly unfastens his trousers as John leans against the door and watches. John’s own hand frees his cock, kicking the panties aside and strokes slowly enjoying the strip tease playing out before him. Sherlock is doubled over, bare bum tempting and swaying as he wriggles his hips, then his thighs and calves free. The performance leather is hot and slick with sweat, emitting soft sucking sounds as Sherlock bends and rolls each leg off. “I might require some... assistance,” the magician smirks as he stands and meets his lover’s gaze.

“Gladly,” John quickly grabs two towels and a small bottle of lube before he follows the birthday boy into the shower.  
___

John slips into the small room setting their towels on the sink and leaning against the tile to watch the naked alabaster form before him adjust dials and step beneath the spray. Their mirror is steaming over already as Sherlock has turned the shower to near scalding temperatures. His skin is flushing pink from the heat and his growing arousal as Sherlock reaches for the body wash. He loves the way John is looking at him, unbound desire devouring him from head to toe.

“Just going to watch?” Sherlock teases, foaming soap up in his hands and rubbing across his shoulders, down his chest, scrubbing the oil from his skin.

“Mmm tempting as that is, I want to touch tonight.” John steps in behind Sherlock crowding his space. He reaches over his lover’s shoulder, leaving nips and teethy kisses along the magician’s ear while he fills his palm with soap and sets the bottle back.

“Hands up, on the wall.” John whispers. Sherlock stills, shivers trailing down his spine at the command. Hands stop scrubbing his hips and he repositions himself, palms to the tile and head hung low, letting the spray massage his neck. John sets in immediately, dropping to his knees, he scrubs Sherlock from the ankles up. Teasing a moment behind the knees as his lover shakes in withheld giggles. Ticklish to a fault but too prideful to let it show.

His hands are rough and strong, but Sherlock loves it. He opens his eyes to look down and watch foamy fingers and corded muscles working his thighs, his hips. Then John is massaging his cock, scrubbing deep and prodding in the creases and folds between his legs and Sherlock is lost. His eyes scrunch shut and he loses himself to the sensation, soft moans peeling from his lips as his body rock and sways. To think he used to hate begging, but with John, he knew what it did to the blonde.

“John, please.”

A growl rumbles from the man behind him and John is standing, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips and flipping him around. Their lips and hips collide as Sherlock feels the cool tiles pressing into his back. John claims his mouth, nipping his tongue, his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth until Sherlock is rocking against him. “Please,” Sherlock whispers, his mouth numb and puffy from kissing.

“One moment.” John reaches to the pile of towels and quickly returns, rocking their cocks together in teasing friction as he fills his palm with lube. Deft hands reach behind Sherlock, pulling him closer and rubbing his arse, fingers pushing and brushing his entrance teasingly. He wants to hear it, one more time.

“Please John, fuck me!” Sherlock finally begs. His knees are growing weak and his cock is painfully hard. John answers with a single finger, pushing in, past the initial burn and gasp. Sherlock sighs and leans into John’s strong grasp. He goes nearly limp, relaxing his whole frame as John slowly pumps one then two fingers inside him. Two become three and he is scissored open. The taller man squirms and moans louder, cocks sandwiched between them as Sherlock sucks new bruises into John’s neck, trying to resist every temptation to take them both in hand.

“Ready, Sherlock?” John asks, slowing the movement of his hands to withdraw.

Between pants, Sherlock nods and manages to speak. “Yes, John. Yes.”

“Hands back on the wall, love.”

Sherlock complies, John trailing hot kisses across his shoulders and up his neck as he gently positions Sherlock lower. Applying lube to his own cock, John lines up and slowly pushes inside his boyfriend with a deep groan. He withdraws slowly, pushing back in quickly, the wet slap of skin on skin barely audible over their combined panting and the harsh spray between them

“Fuck me, John.” Sherlock pleads. “Fuck me, please.”

John is rabid at the words. Sherlock is a mouthy bottom, but he loves it. They both do. John loves the power struggle between the physical and the mental. He pulls back again, slamming back harder. “Like that do you?” And again, again, rough and fast. Sherlock’s moans, “God, yes, John.” The hands on Sherlock’s hips are digging rougher, fresh bruises blossoming over the old. He loves the pull between sensations, pain and pleasure, arching his back to take John deeper.

Sherlock’s arms are bulging in restraint. Trying not to collapse into the wall, not to push back and not to snake down and stroke himself to completion. “John, please” he yells. “Touch me.”

“No,” John says, slamming into Sherlock at a new angle, grazing his prostate. “Come for me Sherlock, Like this. I am going to fuck it out of you.” His hands leave the taller man’s hips and reach up to grab his hair, wrenching his head back. The arch of Sherlock’s back is beautiful and John loses himself for a moment at the sight. He blinks away the thoughts of adoration, there will be time for praise and aftercare when they finish. His teeth sink into Sherlock’s shoulder as a hand return to the magician’s hips and pull him back rough and fast. John picks up the pace, adjusting until Sherlock is scrambling and pleading for release.

“You better come before me Sherlock. I am close, love. So fucking close to filling your arse up.”

“Oh god John, yes. Yes.” And at that Sherlock is gone. His world flashes white then black as the orgasm washes over him. John is quick and strong, gripping his lover carefully and settling him to kneeling under the spray. He pulls out slowly, jerking himself to completion as Sherlock settles and returns to him.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock.” John whispers into his boyfriend’s ear, fingers gently pushing the wet curls from his face.

“John. That was… Thank you.”

“Here, let’s switch this to the bath,” John says, flipping a dial on the tub and stopping up the drain. “You can lean back on me and I’ll wash the glitter from your hair.”

“Mmm yes. That would be nice.” Sherlock mumbles, closing his eyes and leaning into the comforting embrace behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun writing this. I blame Madhatterin221B for the inspiration/push to write this after her AU Tumblr prompt.
> 
> gif inspiration:  
> 


	7. I've Been Studying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenlock AU - Sherlock and John are tutoring one another when Sherlock lets slip that he has been taking notes in an entirely different subject matter: John's Anatomy.
> 
> friends to lovers, fingering, BJs, and a little bit of crack. I like the boys snarky. ;)

“Hang on. What makes you think I need _your_ help?” John asks, spinning in his desk chair to glare at the long legged smartarse taking up his bed.

“I’ve been your lab partner for years John, I know Chemistry isn’t your... strong suit.” His know-it-all lab partner rolls back over, closing his notebook and staring at John’s scattering of glow-in-the-dark star stickers, trying to pick out constellations in the chaos as he waits for a reply.

“Oh? Is that so?,” John huffs up. He has had just about enough of the flippant commentary. Sherlock was meant to come over this afternoon to get tutoring from him, to get help writing his English essay and yet the past hour he has done nothing but criticize his tutor. ”And what is my _strong suit_ then?” the insulted blonde asks, leaning forward in his chair to level a challenging stare across the room at his soon to be ex-best friend if someone’s attitude doesn’t straighten the fuck up right this instant.

“English composition and distractionary techniques.” Sherlock says matter of factly, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Distractionary what?” John flusters about, rising from his chair and about to cross the space between them when Sherlock’s eyes go wide and the shorter boy knows one of those fits is coming on. A verbal bloodbath John is in no mood for but cannot stop.

“Oh come off it. You know what you’re doing, don’t play innocent,” the lanky brunette sits up, knees splayed in a wide stance on the edge of the bed, hands gesticulating wildly as he speaks and jabs accusing fingers in John’s direction. Each word snakes about in deep vibrato as John steps back and resettles into his chair. “Those jeans you always wear, specifically chosen to accentuate the curve of your arse and cut just loose enough to hang low on your hips so that every time you reach across my lap to grab a beaker or a test tube I am party to exactly three centimeters of tantalizing hipbone I cannot touch.”

John sits frozen in shock. A flush creeping up his face as he just stares and listens to the accusations continue. “And your shirts. Please John, don’t pretend for one moment you don’t buy your shirts in medium, though your chest and back muscles call for a large, just to stretch across your chest and pull up just so across your biceps every time you-- you-- why are you staring at me like that?”

The accused finds himself standing before his mind catches up. His lab partner, possible tutor, friend of three years, and dark haired sexual frustration on legs is now frozen mid-sentence trying to deduce his next move. But how could he? John doesn’t even know what he’s going to do next. His mind is on autopilot. Still firing off denial and repression. Sherlock did just say he wants to touch him, but it could mean something else. Something, cold and scientific perhaps. It couldn’t possibly mean that his nights of touching himself to this very picture of Sherlock in his bed sans clothing was a shared sexual fantasy. Only one way to test that theory.

“No wonder you’re barely passing Composition, Sherlock,” John says with a smirk as he makes his way to his bed, stopping to stand between the taller boy’s open knees and stare down at him. “You have been studying anatomy when you should be paying attention to your grammar.” Lifting the edge of his shirt, he flashes a peek of the accused flesh, exhibit A, golden hipbone jutting just above his loose track pants. “Care for a bit of tutoring in the subject?”

“I.. I.. that is, John. What are you doing?” Sherlock blinks in confusion, hand twitching in his lap, frozen in indecision. His heart races, eyes flitting between the skin he wants so badly to touch and the eyes he is so often lost in.

“Tutoring you.” Reaching down, John takes Sherlock’s hand, reveling in the warm feeling of the new touch before guiding those lithe fingers to his exposed hip. Both boys gasp as contact is made. Barely a brush of fingertips. Sherlock, looks up, searching for something in John’s face. He finds the once navy eyes he loves are near black with lust. How, how could he have seen everything but missed the obvious?

“Are you saying you have been doing these things on purpose?” Sherlock’s fingers dig in, gripping John hard as his other hand sneaks up to grab hold of the shorter boy’s other hip and pull him down, leveling their eyes. Foreheads together, sharing breath and each waiting for the other to move.

“I confess no such thing.” John smiles and closes the space between them. The kiss is quick, questioning. He pulls back and meets the silver eyes he fell in love with years ago, seeking approval for more.

With the slightest nod, Sherlock reclaims John’s mouth. Harder, more urgent than before. He licks his way inside, tasting him. Tongues linger on teeth and cheek, they nip at one another, trying to speak all the bottled up desires between them in that kiss. Needing more contact, Sherlock’s hands take over, touching all the skin he’s been desiring for so long. John shifts his weight to straddle the taller boy as he lifts and removes his shirt completely, allowing his friend more skin for touching, kissing, tasting..

John’s own kisses trail down Sherlock’s chin, nipping and teasing down the gorgeous expanse of his neck while dumb fingers struggle to unbutton the lanky boy’s shirt. After only one button, John huffs and sits back up.

“Always with these sodding button ups, Sherlock! Here, get up.” Swapping places, John leans back on his elbows and watches as expert fingers quickly unbutton and remove the offending blouse barring him access to his lover. Before Sherlock can lean back in for a kiss, John leans forward, pulling him by the hips to stand between his open legs. Sherlock flushes in renewed heat as his now painfully bulging jeans are guided to John’s licking lips.

John moves his hands forward, slowly, teasing the taller boy’s fly open and pulling his jeans down to his calves. “Oh god, Sherlock, I have wanted you,” he trails off, leaning forward to mouth and tease the hard cock barely contained in cotton briefs.

“Yes, John, I too,” Sherlock swallows a moan and reaches forward to steady himself, “always” is lost in a low growl as he steadies himself with a bruising grip to the back of John’s neck. Sherlock’s hips begin swaying, desperate for friction as John slips his fingers under the elastic waistband and moves to free his erection. He opens his eyes to look down for a moment but the visual of that mess of spiky blonde hair, and those plush lips wet and hungry for him is too much.

John continues stroking him through the cotton, mouthing over the growing wet spot as he slowly works the pants down Sherlock’s arse. He kneads the soft tissue and moans in delight as finally Sherlock’s cock springs free and the pants are pushed down to join discarded denim. John freezes and stares, taking in the length of the boy. More impressive than he had imagined. He looks up to catch Sherlock staring down at him.

“See something you like?” Sherlock teases, but it comes out low and needy. Hopeful.

“Oh God yes,” John pulls Sherlock closer, licking the full length of his cock in one long wet stripe from base to tip before teasing the head with the barest brush of teeth. The taller boy nearly collapses, shivering and moaning. John huffs a small laugh and repeats the move, stopping to wrap his lips around the tip and suckle, lapping at precome. Sherlock keens once more, tightening his grip on John’s neck. Neither of them expects their first time to last long. Not after years of secret wanking fantasies.

Looking up again, John asks, “Have you ever thought about this Sherlock?” His hands begin stroking his lover, slow long pulls as he speaks. Hot breath grazing Sherlock’s thigh. “Ever get yourself off thinking about me, down here, sucking your cock down my greedy, hot throat.” Sherlock’s eyes go wide with desire, hearing such words coming out of that kiss bruised mouth. The mouth he made look like that. Feeling John’s own answering erection grazing his knees. It is all too much and he has to avert his eyes back to the ceiling constellations.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock answers. His fingers relax their hold and begin carding softly through the small hairs at John’s nape. “The night I stayed over last Summer and we put these stickers on your ceiling. I thought about you in the shower. Suck.. sucking me off.”

“And did we do anything else in this fantasy of yours?” John begins licking again, taking Sherlock into the heat of his mouth, just waiting for a reply. He strokes just a bit harder and begins sucking, hollowing his cheeks to create a gentle pressure.

“You.. oh god.. you uh.. had your fingers in me.”

John pops off, making a wet smacking sound, “Oh.. now that is interesting…” He suddenly takes Sherlock in fully, tickling the back of his throat and swallowing his own moans. Sherlock’s grip tightens in his hair as John begins sucking him off harder. He slips two fingers into his mouth, rubbing the underside of the taller boy’s cock, teasing the vein there as he slicks up the digits.

“Open up for me, baby and fuck my mouth,” John says, nudging Sherlock’s legs to widen his stance while he opens himself up for Sherlock’s desperate grip and grinding hips. John snakes his prepped fingers back behind the hips now rocking into his mouth. He tease Sherlock’s opening, rubbing him gently until he relaxes and lets the first finger in. The reaction is instant. John groans deep and low at the new feeling, shooting a shock through Sherlock’s cock with the vibrations.

“Oh , oh John.” Sherlock struggles to catch his breath as his hips speed up. John slips in a second finger as he swallows and begins working him open, pushing and pulling him from inside and out. Sherlock cannot bite back his noises. A deep guttural grunting escapes his lips as he rockets his hips desperately between both sensations. John fingers him faster, pushing deeper until he feels hips stuttering, the grip around his neck tightening. Sherlock barely gets out “Jo--” before he is cumming hard and fast down the shorter boy’s throat.

John pulls back, smiling as he swallows. New tastes, new sensations making his skin prickle in excitement. Sherlock’s knees finally give out as he topples to the bed, knocking John on his back before rolling to the side. Spent and collapsed his eyes are closed, trying to refocus his breathing.

John leans over his friend... Lover? and kisses him gently on the cheek. “Okay in there?”

Sherlock swallows, throat hoarse and burning from heavy panting as he slowly opens his eyes and attempts to form words. “Me? Yes I’m... that thing you.. thank you.”

John laughs. “I enjoyed it too, Sherlock. I meant it when I said I have wanted this, wanted you, for quite some time.”

“Me too, John. Me too.” Sherlock says. He looks up to the ceiling stars again and slips back into his mind for a moment. John looks about at the mess they’ve made while he waits for Sherlock to return to him. Their notebooks are knocked all over the floor, pencils and papers tangled among discarded clothes. Suddenly, Sherlock sits up and grabs for his notebook. He gives John a look that says more than enough and John reaches out to swat the school supplies away as Sherlock holds them out of reach and smirks.

“No. No Sherlock. No.” .

“What? Why not?”

“You cannot write about this for your paper.”

“But Professor Stamford clearly said to write about a personal moment which moved us, touched us somehow.”

“While I am flattered, the answer is still no. Now drop the pen and get back here.” John wraps himself around the taller boy, rubbing his still clothed erection against sweat slicked hips and pulling him back down to the mattress. “I still need to quiz you on what we learned today,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear.

“Oh, I see.” the brunette grins, surrendering his notebook back to the floor. “And will it be an oral exam?”

“I hope so.” John laughs pulling his lover, his friend, his best lab partner ever, down for another sloppy kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gif inspiration:  
> 


	8. Were You Beaten?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unilock AU
> 
> Frottage, Smoking, Angst, Crack

“Wrong.”

“Did you have something to add Mr. Holmes?”

A collective groan rings through the classroom as today’s Microbiology lecture is interrupted for the fifth time. Leaning back in his chair and staring out the window, Sherlock Holmes huffs a short laugh and fiddles with the button on his uniform coat. He abruptly sits forward, the loud clank of metal chair legs crashing back into tiles echoes off the blackboard.

“I said, Mister Anderson, you’ve got it all wrong,” the boy answers, sneering around the syllables of the older man’s name, “You’ve written the initial dilution formula incorrectly, again, and assigned the hypothetical case study a bacteria which has passed the 24 hour age requirement thus throwing the accuracy of any results. No court would accept such sloppy forensics as evidence.”

“It’s Doctor, young man. And need I remind you that we do not speak out of turn in my classroom?”

“And need I remind you, Prof--”

“Nice catch,” a voice calls from the front of the class, interrupting them. Sherlock freezes in shock as gawking students turn to face Anderson’s star pupil. Sitting front and center as usual, the grinning blonde boy turns and flashes a brilliant smile in Sherlock’s direction before turning back around. Deflated, Professor Anderson returns to the blackboard. His most argumentative student sits silent and gaping.

“That being as it may, Mr. Watson, there are rules and civilities. I expect each of you to remember that next time you feel like addressing the class.” Taking his chalk in hand, the berated professor quickly corrects his formula, refusing to turn around and acknowledge the smug look he can feel burrowing into his skull from the back row. “Now, continuing the lesson.”

Sherlock stops searching the blackboard for inaccuracies and turns his attention to the front center of the large lecture hall where the source of his sexual frustration is twitching in his seat and pretending to take notes. John Watson. Rugby player but not a jock. He always performs well on exams in the few classes they share. Sherlock knows the boy’s work ethic firsthand as he is often found studying alone behind the Chem lab every time Sherlock sneaks off for a smoke. They rarely spoke, but for passing conversations and heated stares across the dining hall.

Sherlock sighs and fondly remembers last month when John had been his lab partner in Chemistry, allowing them more time for chatting. Sherlock had to handle the manual tasks while John prattled on because his left arm was temporarily out of commission. The shorter boy wore a sling for several weeks following a nasty fall in practice and Sherlock recalls how John was more excited discussing how he’d dressed his rugby injuries himself rather than what caused them. He learned the stout blond has aspirations to be a doctor if he can afford medical school. Sherlock smiles at the memory, catching himself still staring when the final bell rings.

Once the class disperses, Sherlock notices his former lab partner hanging back, hovering near the door but away from the small crowd by their professor’s desk. _Waiting for me? Impossible._ But John smiles up at him and waves the dark haired genius over. His impossibly dark blue eyes are locked on, drawing Sherlock in, and he finds himself standing in front of the boy before his mind can further protest.

“Hello, Sherlock. Not sure if you remember--”

“Yes, John. John Watson. We’ve had four courses together including this one. I’ve not forgotten you.”

Sherlock’s mind denies it but he is sure John blushes. He watches as the shorter boy’s confidence breaks and he suddenly finds the floor very interesting. Sherlock pretends not to notice. He wants to laugh but he just stares. He watches as the deepest shade of pink fills John’s face and ears. John finally looks back up, color fading. Unable to hold eye contact, he latches on to the pulse of Sherlock’s throat. The curve of his ear. The dark curls framing his perfect gaze. And they are locked in their routine staring contest. Neither boy speaks for fear of breaking the moment. Just frozen in time, lost on one another’s eyes until the abrupt clearing of a throat draws them back to this plane.

The class is empty and Professor Anderson stands behind them, hand hovering at the light switch, foot tapping in impatience. “Mr. Holmes, you may go on ahead. I need to speak with Mr. Watson.” Sherlock’s face flickers the slightest sneer, but John gives him a nod so he leaves without argument. In the hallway, just beyond the open door, Sherlock waits. His hand twitches, heart racing and he wants to run outside for a smoke but he can hear that hateful voice speaking his name so he stays and he listens.

“Are you sure Mr. Holmes is the sort of lad you should be making friends with?”

“Wha-- excuse me, sir?”

“You are both proper geniuses, that’s for sure. But you, Mr. Watson, are practical and prudent where he is rash and eccentric. Only one of you has a future. I’d hate to see someone with your skills taken down the wrong path by a bully.”

Sherlock shakes in anger. He wants to storm in, tell off the clown of a professor, but he would only be proving the man’s point and in front of John. Instead, Sherlock chokes down his frustrations and storms outside, tearing across the courtyard and swallowing back the anger.

“Professor, Sherlock is not the sort of guy everyone seems to believe he is. I can tell the right sort of people for myself and I can assure you that I am not one easily bullied. Not even by you. Good day.”

“Mr Watson I--”

“Good. Day.”

John shakes with rage, clenching and unclenching his fists when he brushes past the bearded arsehole insulting his classmate. He jerkily pulls his schoolbag from the floor and storms down the hall. Out the double glass doors and across the courtyard, behind a solid grey wall they find one another. One look at Sherlock’s face, illuminated briefly by his lighter as he finds solace in a drag, John can see the trace of wetness and he just knows. _He heard._

Without a word, John leans on the wall next to Sherlock and attempts to calm his own labored breathing. His hands are still shaking. Clenching and unclenching. Fighting every urge to punch the concrete behind them until his knuckles break and bleed.

“Smoke?” Sherlock offers, noticing the tremors.

“No, thank you.” John shakes his head. “Sherlock, listen, screw him. What he said, I know you heard. I don’t see you that way. You are the best, most amazing and brilliant person in this whole university. It’s not your fault that makes some people uncomfortable.”

Sherlock is cautious, slowly pulling a deep inhale and holding the smoke in long enough to burn before speaking in a cloud of release. “And do I not make you uncomfortable?”

“No. Not for a second. You make me… curious?”

“So I am an experiment.”

“No, that’s not,” John grows frustrated. He pushes from the wall and moves to stand in front of the taller boy, “You just, I don’t know, excite me. I want to know you.”

There is an awkward pause, as Sherlock takes another drag and considers his words. John shifts to avoid smoke in his face but Sherlock tilts his head back, exhaling into the sky. Seeking some sort of reply in the clouds overhead. Suddenly that neck, long and lean and inches away holds John’s full attention. He lets his eyes trace where his tongue wishes. Up the steep curve, into the shoft shell of that pale ear, across those cheekbones. And he finds those eyes watching him, knowing. They are back to staring again, tension pulling between them, heat pulsing in the cool night air.

“Your wrist,” Sherlock starts, deciding on a safe conversational topic. “Has it mended well?”

“Oh yes, quite well I would say,” John flexes the wrist out, rotating and splaying his fingers. Sherlock watches the dance of skin and muscle over bone, fascinated by every detail. The freckles, random hairs, every crease and scar. He wants to touch, to feel for himself when John speaks again.

“It healed up cleanly, there is only a small scar here,” John raises his arm between them, tilting and trying to locate the slight discoloration. In one swift motion Sherlock flicks away his cigarette and takes John’s wrist in both hands. Twisting and turning it under the single lamplight he locates the scar and triumphantly traces it with a finger. “Here, John. It is very faint, but still there.”

The shorter boys gasps at the touch but does not pull back. Sherlock’s finger strokes across his skin, gently circling where rock had severed flesh. His voice is barely a whisper, lips mere inches away now. “You did a masterful job with the stitches, John, very clean.” And John’s brain shorts out. He cannot handle his name coming from that mouth. The way Sherlock murmurs that one sweet syllable, like he’s making love to it. Drawing out the singular vowel. Like a curse and prayer spilling from his lips.

John leans up, and silences the teasing whisper with a kiss. Sherlock freezes but an instant before he relaxes, fingers encircling John’s wrist to pull him in tighter. He tastes bitter and sweet like smoke and coffee and when John licks his way inside they both let loose a moan, melding together in agreement. John traces Sherlock’s bottom lip, tasting and teasing him. Sherlock opens up for him, humming deep in his throat, sending chills down John’s spine with every vibration. They pull each other in closer, hands falling to hips and grabbing, pulling, deepening the kiss. Closer, harder, more.

“Sh- Sherlock,” John gasps, pulling back just a fraction to breathe. Their uniform jackets are mussed, held on only for the sake of fine tailorship and well secured buttons. “Can we take this somewhere, private? Is your dorm close by?”

“Yes, but I live with my insufferable brother, eternal mood killer.”

John giggles, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s shirt collar and hmm hmming in thought.. “I understand. Live with my family off campus.” Sherlock’s hands tighten at John’s waist, his eyes flit about looking for somewhere else they can be alone.

“There, Chem Lab 3. Professor Donovan is off for maternity leave this month It should be empty.” Not waiting for an answer, the taller boy grabs his hand and drags John across the courtyard to the side door. As soon as he hears the click of a lock disengaging, John is on him, shoving Sherlock into the dark classroom and back against the door. This time his lips are all desperation and teeth. Nipping down Sherlock’s chin and devouring that glorious neck.

“How long Sherlock?”

“Wha-”

“How long could we have been doing this?”

“Too long, John.”

Sherlock is gasping, panting, hands seeking purchase in short blonde hairs as John works his mouth lower. Searing hot kisses and sucking bruises into his skin. He loosens the taller boy’s tie hastily, popping one then two buttons to better access the deep v dip of his clavicle. His collarbones begging to be worshipped with teeth and tongue.

“J-John, yes. Ahh!” Sherlock gasps in shock as John rocks his hips up and brushes against his thigh. _I did that to him? This golden Adonis is this turned on kissing me?_ Before Sherlock can question it, John’s hands move lower to cup and trace his answering erection. Mouths linked back up to renew kissing.

“God Sherlock, I have wanted you for so long.”

Sherlock finds his dexterity and determination renewed. Lithe fingers slip down to grope John by the arse and pull him closer, rocking and teasing friction with his thigh.

“John, let’s.. off the door.. to the.. the desk.” Sherlock gasps out. The rattling frame from their joined rocking is sure to draw attention.

Once behind the desk, Sherlock lifts John by the thighs, seating him on the desks edge. He leans on the blackboard, just taking stock of the boy before him. Hair ruffed from groping, lips swollen and red, shirt wrinkled, tie nearly removed. A beautiful string of bruises across his neck from Sherlock’s worrying teeth and desperate mouth.

“My god John, you’re--

\--Gorgeous,” John cuts in. He’s been staring too. Enjoying his own handiwork. “Sherlock you are so... it’s been horrible. All this fear of rejection but not wanting anyone else.”

“Well now, as you can plainly see,” Sherlock smirks, gesturing to his cock. “I clearly return your affections.”

John smiles, shifting his own uncomfortable position on the desk. Knees falling open, eyes beckoning Sherlock to step closer. The devious brunette closes the space between them, teasing a small rut against John’s bulge just to hear him gasp and utter a barely audible “fuuuuck.”

“Sh-Sherlock.” John starts. He raises his hand to his lover’s zip and fly, tracing, trailing, teasing. “I haven’t properly tested the endurance strength of my wrist yet. Care to help?”

“Mmm God, yes. Please.”

John doesn’t hesitate, he unfastens, pulling and pooling trousers and pants to free Sherlock’s cock. He can see how painfully hard to boy is, wet and desperate to be touched. First, a loose grip starting at the base and just teasing up, John pulls a deep groan from Sherlock. Fingers tightening, he works the foreskin down and back, exposing the weeping head. Sherlock’s hands are fumbling, ripping John’s trousers open to grasp his cock. Johns swats his hands away and hops from the desk, cocks jostling together just a moment as he pushes Sherlock back against the blackboard and falls to his knees.

Sherlock loses all ability to speak. He just watches, begs and pleads with his eyes. Hands raking through soft blonde peaks as John lowers his mouth and with the same fervor that left a trail of bruises on pale neckflesh, he sucks and draws long moans from Sherlock that resonate from his core.

Just as Sherlock is pushing to the edge, panting and writhing for him, John pulls back and looks up. He has slipped his own cock out and his stroking himself softly. Those eyes are enough. But Sherlock perfect kiss swollen lips are open in a silent “o” looking down at him with such adoration and John has to still his hand to keep from coming right there.

Mouth loose and moaning around Sherlock’s cock, John returns to licking and wetting him for his final plans. Once slick and slippery, John stands and takes Sherlock in hand. Long languid strokes keeping him teetering while John adjusts his position.

“God John, I’m so close, so fucking close.” His head is thrown back, eyes closed, chest heaving.

“I know, soon. Open your eyes.” John places his scarred, previously injured hand on Sherlock’s cock, makes a loose fist then thrusts his hips forward, pushing his own cock into the space between and rubbing them both together.

Both boys shudder at the new sensation. “Oh god, John, yes.” John tightens his grip, thrusts again, harder. Sherlock begins rocking his hips. “Sher-Sherlock, here.” John guides Sherlock’s hand over his own. They rock together, faster, rubbing and stroking one another. Panting harder, silenced only by a desperation to kiss again. Thankfully timed to drown out their joined moans of completion. Sherlock and John each swallowing their own names mewled and whispered among the shivering mess between them.

John pulls out his rugby uniform and wipes them both down, giggling when he notices the smudged Chemical equations on the blackboard which are now transcribed to the back of Sherlock’s uniform. Sherlock frowns but pulls him in for more furious snogging, broken apart by impromptu wrestling and more giggles as the taller boy attempts and fails to get chalk on John’s school blazer.

“Uh uh, maybe next time, Sherlock.” John laughs, dodging and backing towards the door.

“Assuming you’ll want there to be a next time.”

John freezes. Smile fading to a serious set line and crosses his arms. “Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me. There will always be a next time so long as I draw breath.”

Sherlock smiles and melts. He can tell John is sincere. “Then I look forward to it, John.” He lets the shorter boy walk him home, kissing and groping one another the entire way. Parting at the dorm foyer only after exchanging phone numbers and promising to further test John's injured wrist.

Once upstairs, Sherlock is confronted by his brother. Assuming the elder Holmes to be asleep, he had made no effort to straighten his clothes or hair. Sherlock kicks off his shoes and stands in the hallway light, every sign of this evening’s activities highlighted in a florescent glow. Hair rumpled, bruised neck, swollen lips, school uniform blazer covered in chalk. Mycroft takes one look at him and his face melts into one of concern and fear. “My god, Sherlock. Were you beaten?” Sherlock doubles over laughing, giggling until his eyes brim with tears. He drops his school bag, exits for his room and closes the door to laugh some more. Mycroft blinks, confused until realization hits. Oh. _Oh_. **Ew**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gif this week is pretty tame:  
> 


	9. Trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omegaverse, Smoking!kink, mention of past assault

Sherlock dropped his pipette and sniffed the air as soon as John walked in. Something was off. Surgery soaps, not uncommon, but something else… something foreign. John stood frozen in the doorway, face stricken with fear. His forehead breaking out in a nervous sweat, masking the pungent stench of too much disinfectant.

“John, come here.”

“Let me just remove my coat and--”

“Now.” John jumped at the command, skin prickling with fear and anticipation. He should have known better than to attempt tricking not just his alpha but the most observant man in the sodding universe. He crossed the room, dropping his bag and shoulders, cowering into the taller man’s shadow as he rose.

“Now look, Sherlock--” the shorter man was cut off by a faceful of curls when his predatory boyfriend bent forward to sniff his neck and collar. “Look, I was going to--”

“Who was it?” Sherlock grasped his shoulders, holding John at arm’s length and leveling him with his iciest stare. Demanding an answer.

“No one we know,” John fidgeted, dropping his gaze. “I was, that is, he cornered me in the elevator. I didn’t get a name. He just…he...” the shaking omega looked up to his lover, hoping Sherlock could just deduce the rest and not make him relive the incident.

Sherlock’s cold eyes took in his face, his body language. He leaned in closer, sniffing along John’s chin, up his left cheek, then paused. His nose crinkled in a sneer as he lurched back. “He licked your face. Who. Was. He?”

“I swear I don’t know,” John hung his head, feeling ashamed and dirty though he knew he had done nothing wrong. “I was just taking the elevator down to the garage to drop off my reports and he cornered me, he.. he..” _pushed me up against the wall and rutted on my leg, licking and nosing into my neck until the doors opened and then he was gone_.  John relived the rest behind clenched eyes, unable to voice the experience. He looked up, pleading now. _Please don’t make me say it_.

“Shh... it’s okay now,” Sherlock’s entire demeanor shifted. Strong fingers loosened their knuckle bare grip into his lover’s arms and slipped around his back, gently stroking between his shoulderblades as he pulled the shaking man in closer. “I know, I know, it wasn’t your fault. That’s why you smell so... clean. You were trying to scrub him out of your skin.”

John’s voice betrayed him, cracked and pitched as he squeaked out a small “yes” before breaking down to sob into Sherlock’s chest.

“Shh… shh.. it’s okay. You’re home now.” Sherlock’s own voice was shaking, threatening to expose his own weakness and fear knowing he wasn’t there when John needed him. Wishing he could have done something. He rocked and cooed in soft whispers until his omega stopped sniffling and sighed into him. “John, love, what do you need?”

John thought a moment, he needed two things, neither of which were easy to put into words. Looking back up he found the red rimmed eyes of his lover trying to stay strong for him. The raw emotion in Sherlock’s face gave him strength. “First,” John began, “I would like to shower, a proper hot shower with our soap and my own towels. And then, I want, if you can. I need…” _every trace of this animal removed from my skin._ He finished with a sigh hoping he’d said enough.

Sherlock heard him. He hugged his brave omega, nibbled gently down his ear, across the unsoiled half of his face where he would be more receptive and bit softly into his neck. “Go wash up then, I will be out here when you are ready for me. Take as long as you need.”

Almost an hour later John emerged from the steamy bathroom, pink and smiling. Sherlock stood at the open window, smoking. His hands nervous and shaking, the only sign that he was still worried. Seeing the calm demeanor on his lover’s face did wonders to soothe him. “I was beginning to think you fell asleep in there.” Sherlock grinned, hoping to lighten the mood further.

“Never tell someone who loves a good bath to take as long as they like, love.” John laughed, crossing the room to lean up and kiss his cheek. He paused on tip toe, leaning into Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in. The stale coffee, bitter smoke and trace amounts of chlorine from that morning’s experiment. All Sherlock. His cigarette burned beside them, smoke trailing up and around their heads. Sherlock raised the butt to his lips, taking one final drag deep into his lungs. Before he could expel the excess, John was on him, kissing and licking into him. Sucking him in, smoke and all. He coughed, giggling from the temporary high and went back in for more. Hands tangled in Sherlock’s curls as he deepened the kiss. Sherlock discarded the cigarette over their balcony and wrapped his arms around his hungry lover.

“Sherlock,” John at last pulled back to breathe. “I need you. You, just. Please. Light another one?” Understanding passed between them and Sherlock did as he was asked. He took a long pull, waited for John to open his mouth and slowly breathed into the kiss. His eyes grew glossy, giddy and smiling around smoky kisses as they shared two more sloppy shotgun breaths. The cigarette smoke curled around John’s face, stinging his eyes and digging into his skin, taking root in his hair. It was such a simple thing but he needed it, feeling cleaner somehow. Purified by the burn in his lungs and the heat in his face.

Emboldened by his new elation, John nibbled down Sherlock’s chin, kissing across his neck and shoulder, working the buttons of his shirt open as the taller man finished and tossed his cigarette. Sherlock slowly disrobed his naked omega, massaging calm circles into his hips while John undressed him. Kisses peppered along each new patch of exposed flesh until Sherlock was left standing in their sitting room with naught but black silk boxers straining against the heat of his cock.

“John, are you sure,” Sherlock tried to swallow a moan and fight every desire screaming in his blood. Once he was turned on it was usually all instinct but for John he was patient. For John he could focus. Without this trust they never would have bonded. Puffy lips worked back up his chest, nipped across his collar bones until John was back on tiptoes, whispering in his ear soft and dirty. “I’m sure, love. Already so wet for you.” Sherlock shivered as John guided his hand between shower damp cheeks and oh god, he was dripping. A low growl shook between them, as Sherlock gave in to instinct.

In a blink John was kneeled across the sofa, keening and moaning as Sherlock claimed him, pushing in and biting down over a bruise neither man wanted to heal. It wasn’t his time yet, not for a couple weeks, but John was a doctor and he was always cautious. He’d taken his daily pill just that morning before work. Before... For a moment he was lost in his mind, kicking himself for the elevator scene. But he wasn’t in heat. That alpha had no reason to be such a-- “John, I can hear you thinking. Stop it.” Sherlock groaned, pulling out slowly before thrusting back into him, driving his point quite literally home. The omega squirmed, his own cock hard and leaking. Sherlock reared back again, slamming into him harder, faster. There was no need to beg, to plead. His alpha always knew what he wanted, what he needed. Right now he needed to forget.

Their first time, heat or no was always over in a flash. John always pushing Sherlock’s limits until he finally claimed him. It was an odd dance, John always wanted an alpha who would be rough with him during but never before or after. Mark him, bruise him, set light to the fire inside until it burned him up screaming and begging for more. Then hold him when it was all over and praise him. Love him. Tonight was no different.

John teetered on the edge of pleasure for just a moment before he was filled and groaning, screams muffled by the sofa cushions, Sherlock collapsing and shaking behind him. He lost himself in the burn and let go. When he came to, curled into his sleeping alpha he was cleaned up and tucked back into his robe. There was nothing left in the air, in his skin, but Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Omegaverse fic. I admit I forgot the whole rape-vibe non con aspect of this verse and just wrote John and Sherlock the way I usually do: fluffy and a bit angsty. I wasn’t sure, even after doing some research, how a “heat” works but I just imagined it as similar to ovulation for women, like when you are more likely to be impregnated. And with that assumption, I figured omegas and alphas are fully capable of initiating sex on NON heat days too, just less hormone clouded and more “normal”. If I overstepped or fucked it all up, oh well. It’s a work of fictional smut and I’ll just hide behind my monitor where you can’t get me. la la la~!
> 
> oh yeah and the gif:  
> 


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